


Until

by Nadzieja



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crowley Has Self-Esteem Issues (Good Omens), Crowley has an ex-bf, Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley is a Sweetheart (Good Omens), Crowley's Eyes (Good Omens), Crowley's pov, Drinking, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Kate and Leopold, M/M, Mentions of 19th century homophobia, Mentions of toxic past relationship, Misunderstandings, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Romcom I guess?, Slice of Life, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:33:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25020178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nadzieja/pseuds/Nadzieja
Summary: “I don’t want to go home.” Half-asleep Aziraphale murmurs into his ear and Crowley's heart clenches. His grip tightens reflexively around the warm soft body in his arms, around the smell of old books and sandalwood.“Then don’t.” He’s trying not to sound like he's pleading, but his throat is tight and his voice hoarse.*Crowley lives his average life, working in a high-end advertising company at London that pays just enough to get him a room in a shared accommodation. That's just his luck that he ends up living with a literalwitch. One day she brings home an even more eccentric man that has a taste for 19th century fashion, as if Crowley didn't have enough things to worry about. Little he knows that the man will turn his world upside down. Literally. And that's just the beginning of his problems.(Kate & Leopold AU)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 142
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	Until

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [ this post ](https://areyougonnabe.tumblr.com/post/614081483002511360/well-i-just-watched-kate-leopold-and-im) by wonderful [ @areyougonnabe ](https://areyougonnabe.tumblr.com/) / [ attheborder ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/attheborder/pseuds/attheborder), who let me play in her sandbox (thank you so much!!) Check out her stuff, because she writes amazing fics !
> 
> Big thank you to [ @aubergineorbrinjal ](https://aubergineorbrinjal.tumblr.com/) for beta'ing this and making this so much better:)

“I don’t want to go home.”

Half-asleep Aziraphale murmurs into his ear and Crowley's heart clenches. His grip tightens reflexively around the warm soft body in his arms, around the smell of old books and sandalwood.

“Then don’t.” He’s trying not to sound like he's pleading, but his throat is tight and his voice hoarse.

_Don’t go yet, not yet. It was the nightingale, and not the lark, that pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear._

Crowley's cheek brushes against the moussed blonde hair in front of him, fingertips sliding across that silly velvet vest. Right now he needs to feel that it's real, needs to make it last. Afraid to miss even one second of their time together, afraid that when he wakes up, this fussy, kind man who appeared in his life out of nowhere will be back in his own time, back in his own… home.

_I don't want to go home._

For Crowley, home is a new concept. It's a smiling face greeting him in the morning, it's drinking wine and talking until late, it’s a voice that snaps him back into reality when he needs to be told off, it’s the smell of old books and sandalwood. It's... Aziraphale.

But for Aziraphale… home is 19th century England, the year 1836 [1] to be precise, where the death penalty for 'sodomy' won't be abolished for 25 more years. (It will be another 106 years before it is decriminalised altogether, Crowley checked).

How could he ever let Aziraphale go back to that? And yet he will have to, maybe not now, maybe not today, but eventually…

If he could, he would swap with Aziraphale and go back to the 19th century instead. He thought about it a lot, but he knows he could never replace an inventor, let alone one as smart as Aziraphale. Nearly two centuries later Crowley doesn't even understand what exactly Aziraphale is researching - something on the border between electricity and chemistry. Crowley couldn't replace a socket to save his life. 

Isn't it funny? We go through life using clever little inventions other people spent their whole lives developing and we don't even remember their names. 

The howl of sirens cutting through the night reminds him that the world outside is still falling apart. All because one inventor didn’t return to his timeline. Crowley would give up all the technology in the world in the blink of an eye, if only to keep Aziraphale here for one more day.

How can a small invention like a battery back in eighteen-thirty-bloody-six have such a huge impact on the present time? Aziraphale called it a _butterfly effect_ : the theory explaining that even a small change, like the flapping of a butterfly's wings, can result in consequences as severe as a tornado on the other side of the globe.

_How much time do we have left before everything goes to hell? Before the tornado tears our world apart and grinds it into dust?_

For now, Aziraphale is safe, asleep in his arms, and Crowley is fighting a losing battle to keep his eyes open, too afraid the dream might be over in the morning. There's the background murmur of his brand new TV, slick and modern. Some romantic bullshit (that Crowley agreed to watch only to see that blinding smile on Aziraphale's face), is playing its way to the end - an unlikely happy ending. One that is too good to be true.

Anathema - Crowley's only-slightly-crazy roommate that discovered the time-travelling portal to begin with - is out in her makeshift lab in the garage, adamant that if there is a solution, she's going to find it. Most of the time Aziraphale is there too, but today Crowley managed to talk him into taking a break and, seeing how quickly Aziraphale fell asleep, it was much needed. 

He dreads the day Anathema comes into their flat only to say that she’s run out of ideas or time and that they have to face the painful truth there is nothing that will save Aziraphale from going back to his time. _At some point we might have to, but not tonight._ Crowley buries his nose in the blond curls. _It’s not fair. There are so many things I still want to show you, so many things I want to share with you._

It's been a perfect few weeks and Crowley has decided that whatever happens, he's not going to regret it. Not even one bit. Instead, he traces every conversation and touch back to the beginning, before he knew anything about the 19th century or all that time-travel nonsense.

It all began… with a breakup.  
  


* * *

Crowley storms into his flat without regard for anything in his way. His fringe flops onto his forehead and he curses the day he’d decided to cut that damn thing short.

"Anatheeema! I need your ruthless sanity-check, because he's done it again!"

Within seconds Crowley is in the kitchen, hands reaching out to the familiar cabinet, where his favourite bottle of whisky lies hidden behind Anathema’s lesser-used cooking pots. He's not in the mood for keeping up appearances, so he takes a swing straight from the bottle and lets his limbs sprawl over the kitchen counter.

That is when Crowley first notices him: a man roughly his age, dressed in beige from head to toe and looking like he ran away from some bloody Agatha Christie production out of the West End. The sip of whisky goes up his nose and he will not, when he thinks back to this moment, admit to himself the cough or two that escaped.

"Oh, _hello_." The man smiles and _fucking hell_ , he sounds _posh_. "Anathema's colleague I presume?"

"Er, sort of. Roommate actually."

A kinder person might describe Anathema as ‘eccentric’, but Crowley simply thought her _weird_. This aspect of her personality extended from her fashion taste, through the forms of magic she practiced, to the company she kept. Well, she wouldn't be living with him otherwise.

"Aziraphale," the man nods and extends his hand politely. "And you must be Crowley?"

"What else am I going to be? An aardvark!?"

Crowley snaps at the stranger and immediately regrets it. The man gives him a dampened smile in response and turns away to watch the world continue its pace outside the window.

Only then does Crowley take off his sunglasses (he has weird eyes, unnaturally amber with slit-like pupils and is fed up with people cringing at their sight) to give the man a closer look.

The more he stares, the more he thinks Aziraphale looks... adorable, wrapped up in his Victorian getup like a Christmas present ( _did Victorians do Christmas presents?_ ) Too bad cute is not Crowley's type. No, he always has to fall for complete bastards.

In that moment Anathema kicks the doors open and almost drops her keys.

"Sorry I'm late, _oh_ -" 

Her hands are overflowing with shopping and Aziraphale is immediately there to help. Crowley smirks and takes another swig.

"Chivalry's not dead yet."

"I see you've met _Crowley_." Anathema says, and Crowley can almost point the precise moment she catches the stale atmosphere in the room. Then, she her eyes flick over him and it's going to be obvious any minute now-

"He's left you again, didn't he?"

Suddenly, Crowley doesn't feel like talking about it at all. He's definitely not drunk enough for this yet. 

"I told you to leave that arsehole ages ago! I don't know what you're still doing with _him._ "

"Yes well, heart is a rebel, not a servant."

Aziraphale blinks once, twice, before his eyes fall on Crowley, lips parting in a surprise. "Ever so sorry to interrupt but did you just say…he?"

"What? Don't think I'm worth it, sunshine?" Crowley tries out a seductive grin, but it doesn't result in the reaction he anticipated.

"You- you're telling me this… this is… perfectly _acceptable_ now!? No jail, no... nothing?"

"Oh, _sorry_. Of course, the times have changed you see..." Anathema is by Aziraphale in an instant, rubbing circles on the man's shoulder to calm him down. 

"Is he alright?" Crowley gives the overly-beige man a once-over, and to his own surprise he even deems the man _classy_. 

"Yes he's just… he's gay," Anathema announces like it was some kind of a big reveal and Crowley quirks his lips downward in a pout. It doesn't even earn him a smile. 

_Damn, tough crowd._

"It's not a disease, magic-girl."

"Where he comes from, being gay is forbidden, Crowley, often with the penalty of death."

Crowley looks back at Aziraphale, who is rubbing his eyes frantically, and feels like a complete jerk. His relationship problems suddenly seem unimportant compared to this.

"I'm sorry. I - ah, I just need a moment. It's been a tiring day" Aziraphale repeats through glassy eyes that Crowley is sure might burst at any moment. This is when the man's chin starts to wobble and Crowley didn't expect that _at all_. It melts a big chunk of ice that had lodged itself against his heart and he feels genuinely sorry for Aziraphale. If only there was something he could do to help.

He kneels in front of the man, his bottle of whisky forgotten on the floor for someone to trip over later.

"Uh, y’know, the UK is far from perfect, but at least it's safe. Perhaps you could stay for now… the flat is big enough for three of us, really."

Aziraphale doesn't respond but Anathema looks up at him, a weird exasperation mixes in her eyes with traces of guilt. Something Crowley should have really picked up on in the moment, but he is too drunk and too heartbroken to notice.

Aziraphale stays with them that night. Crowley even gives up his room and sleeps on the couch. It feels nice somehow, being helpful. He should really get out and meet people, instead of forever hanging out with Luca's crowd. 

* * *

"I'm from the 19th century," Aziraphale states at breakfast the next morning. “I followed Miss Device through a time portal.”

"You what?" Crowley chokes on his ASDA Baker's Selection brioche, certain he is being mocked and nearly drops his iPhone that he'd been checking religiously since he’d arrived the previous night (and that, as if out of spite, decided to stop working precisely yesterday).

Aziraphale chuckles, straightens his posture and wiggles in contentment. He radiates so much warmth there’s barely any similarity to the distraught man from the day before.

"Explains the attire," Crowley mutters and it earns him the most endearing frown.

"I do beg your pardon?" Aziraphale says in a voice suggesting he will defend his choice of fashion to the grave. Everything about the man is unconventional, and Crowley would be lying if he said he didn't find it a little bit alluring. "But I daresay the future is a rather nice, perhaps even more civilised place. It's a shame I will have to go back to my own time, but I suppose it wouldn’t do to be late for my own wedding.”

Crowley blinks. 

“You’re getting married? To who?”

“A respectable young lady, I would hope. I haven't exactly chosen yet." He says calm and collected, sipping his tea with poshness that is no doubt appropriate to the 19th century.

“But Aziraphale, you’re gay.” Crowley feels like he has to spell out the obvious.

"Oh, but it's really not that bad, when you think about it. I suppose… I will have someone to chat, for one."

"Not _that_ bad?" Crowley's brows draw together and Aziraphale sighs.

“I know, it’s not fair on my future wife, but I will treat her well and maybe, in time, we'll become friends." The forlorn tone of Aziraphale’s voice on its own is worrisome, but the worst part is the matter-of-fact way Aziraphale speaks about the sham marriage, as if it is a perfectly normal thing. And perhaps in his time, it is. Crowley cringes at the very thought of it.

“It’s not fair on you. Why would you want to go back to that at all?"

"Still no news from _him_?"

Aziraphale motions towards Crowley's mobile and it throws him off his train of thought. Crowley looks down at the device in his hand, impressed that the man was able to piece together enough information to even know what purpose it serves. 

"Er, no, not yet, but he _will_ call. Eventually. Once I get this bloody thing to work."

 _What a bastard_ , Crowley thinks with just a hint of admiration, but he gets it, he does. It must look rather pathetic from the outside perspective, but _it's not that bad_ -

It hits him then and he feels like the worst hypocrite. 

"Either way, the laws of physics won’t let me stay here, my dear," Aziraphale continues, not offended by the exchange. "There are consequences for everything. And the marriage is in my best interest too. Too many gossips, you see."

The man gives him another polite smile (the one that doesn’t reach his eyes) and continues sipping his tea in silence. It's a learning process, but Crowley is adept at reading people's reactions for what they really are. His coloboma [2] made his obsession with the eyes useful for once.

"Would you be so kind as to… show me around?" Aziraphale provides a swift change to the topic and Crowley is grateful for it. They don't have to claw at their wounds, the things they already accepted for what they are. They might as well enjoy their time together. It's not going to last forever.

“Dressed like that?" Crowley lets his tongue curl around his indignation, and punctuates it with a nose scrunch.

"It's fashionable."

"Vintage at best."

"Oh shush you, I won't take fashion advice from someone who wears tinted lenses at all times." He stands up and puts his coat on - beige as well, because of course it is.

"They're there to make you feel better; no one wants to see snake eyes," Crowley yells after him. Luca was one of the few people that never mentioned his eyes. He bought Crowley fashionable shades instead.

"Is that what it's called? I did wonder. Your eyes are remarkable, they look like molten gold." Aziraphale says it like it's an obvious fact and gives him that blinding smile, not at all aware that Crowley's heart is being flung open in that precise second. 

_Is this man even real?_  
  


* * *

On Monday it transpires that his mobile issues are just a prelude to an even worse week - the advertising company Crowley works for is having technical issues with their high end Apple equipment and other hellishly expensive devices, and sends everyone home until further notice. Crowley suddenly finds himself with a lot of surplus time and, for the lack of anything better to do, decides to spend it entertaining his new guest.

He easily falls into the routine of taking Aziraphale out and showing him around, trying to distract him from the tedious work of putting together a device that would open the time portal back up. 

Not that it had something to do with him feeling comfortable around the man or the weird rattling of his heart. Not at all. He makes a mental note to get that checked at some point.

Not even the sudden influx of broken taxis, faulty billboards or otherwise annoyed people rushing along the pavements could spoil this for him. The world could be ending right now and he doubts he would even notice. 

They go to all of the interesting places in town: parks, restaurants, galleries, museums; Aziraphale loves it all. In truth, Crowley had never met anyone who could be this excited with such simple things. 

One day, Crowley takes Aziraphale to the science museum and what is he most fascinated with? _Ducks in the fucking park._

That day Crowley doesn't even think once about his faulty iPhone, now left forgotten at the bottom of his drawer. 

Another time, Aziraphale learns how to operate Crowley's Spotify and spends the whole evening flicking song after song. He notices that his new friend prefers the quieter ones, ballads that have a hint of classical themes in them.

Crowley spends all evening just watching him, entranced by the way Aziraphale taps from screen to screen on a device far ahead of his times.

"I've never had a chance to dance with- that is, what I want to say is-" he stands against the sun and it looks like there is a halo around his head. A soft waltz-like [3] song Crowley vaguely recognises as Sting, plays in the background.

_...one day you'll meet a stranger and all the noise is silenced in the room..._

"Absolutely bloody not."

"Please?" Aziraphale's chin wobbles and Crowley's heart melts, just like the first night they met. It makes him want to keep that smile on his face forever.

_Anything angel, anything for you._

Crowley raises up and discards his shades to the side table, feeling all the more self-conscious for it. But he doesn't want to miss any of this. And when he sees the affection in Aziraphale's eyes, he knows he made the right decision.

He's not much of a dancer, not outside of clubs anyway, where it's dark and cramped and other people press their hungry hands against you, always taking and giving nothing in return. 

This is not like that. 

Aziraphale puts his hands around his shoulders and Crowley puts his on Aziraphale's waist and they- 

Sway. 

_...when everything shatters, you´ll feel as if you've known them all your life..._

Crowley almost forgets to breathe; it hits him that they have never been so close before. He can't stop the rattling of his heart in his ribcage, can only hope it's not audible. Aziraphale's cheek almost brushes his own and then the man tilts his head to look at Crowley with those crystal-clear blue eyes. 

_...here in your arms, where the world is impossibly still..._

It must be something to do with gravity, because their noses are almost touching now and Crowley doesn't miss the way Aziraphale's teeth worry at his bottom lip. 

"Hiya boys! Have you noticed the town- _Oh_." Anathema bursts into their flat. Aziraphale steps away as if struck, leaving Crowley's arms unnaturally empty. 

_...and a matter of moments until the dancing ends..._

"Seriously, have you ever heard of knocking!?" Crowley growls.

She looks between the two and the cheeky, mouthy Anathema is, for once, lost for words. For a beat anyway.

"I’ll, um, come back later." She turns on her heel to leave.

"No, no, it's fine. I seemed to- to have forgotten myself…" Aziraphale says and Crowley feels all the breath escaping his lungs. The moment is gone.

"You sure?" Anathema glances sideways at Crowley who waves his hand in the air and reaches for his sunglasses. _Whatever_ , it says.

This was the day Anathema put all the recent world-wide happenings in focus for them and broke the bubble: they are officially running out of time.

* * *

Crowley sighs, jolted back to reality by another siren echoing through the dark. He slides his hands under Aziraphale's waist and kneels to pick him up, careful not to wake him. For now, the man is safe in Crowley's own bed, covered with the nicest, fluffiest blanket he has. After a moment he turns to leave, but Aziraphale catches his hand and pulls him back.

"Stay with me.” Aziraphal whispers his plea without opening his eyes. It sounds so vulnerable it tugs at all of Crowley's heartstrings at once.

So Crowley takes off his shoes and jacket and lies down next to Aziraphale who, in turn, buries his face in Crowley’s chest at the first brush of contact. Crowley’s heart melts and he cradles Aziraphale’s head, strokes those fluffy curls, and traces his cheek with all the past and present they’re not allowed to have.

_Stay with me._

This moment feels far too intimate for what it is, possibly more intimate than anything Crowley has ever done with another person in his _life_. And they’re only curled in a blanket, layers of clothes still in between them, limbs pressing against each other. He’s wrapped around Aziraphale, ready to protect him from anything that could ever come. Snaked around his form, not ready to let go as he drifts off.

The morning comes too soon, the sun stinging Crowley's eyes with its unforgiving rays. Crowley grumbles in the general direction of the curtains that are not doing their job properly, at the injustice of a world that won’t even let him sleep.

By instinct, his hand reaches out to tuck himself back against that warm body he vaguely remembers falling asleep by the night before, but there's nothing there - just a crumpled blanket and an empty space.

There is something very wrong about this and panic rises in his chest like a tsunami about to drown every part of his being. His eyes shoot wide open and he scrambles out of the bed.

"Aziraphale!"

Crowley paces his flat back and forth, but it's empty - Anathema hasn't come back from her laboratory yet and Aziraphale is nowhere to be seen. Out of a habit he picks up the iPhone from his drawer and dials Anathema. After two beeps, a cold realisation spreads through his stomach and the mobile slips through his fingers, landing on the wooden floor with a loud thud.

His eyes slide to the letter on the kitchen counter. There, printed on a crisp, white envelope, is his name written in the neatest copperplate handwriting he's ever seen and indeed, it smells of old books and sandalwood.

He picks it up with shaking hands and opens it up as carefully as he can. Halfway through the motion he stops, takes out a fresh bottle of whisky from among all the empty wine bottles they drank together, and the hidden pack of cigarettes he was meant to give up. Then he takes his pity party outside to the balcony, because whatever's in the letter, it's going to fuck him up for a long time.

An hour later, he's still sitting on the floor of his balcony in yesterday's clothes, all crumpled and stale, smoking. An almost-empty bottle of whisky by his side. In his hand, he holds a worn-out letter he’s read so many times it's etched into his memory, and into his very being. Just the first words alone slice his heart into pieces.

_My dear Crowley,_  
_I'm sorry I've left without a word, goodbyes are not my strong suit. I'm afraid I would just make a mess out of things, and I didn't want to taint good memories with tears. You see, I figured out no device is needed to open the portals, you just need to know the right place and time… and meet a couple of other physical conditions. Oh dear, I'm rambling again and I wanted to tell you something._

_The truth is, I have had a wonderful time and I will always remember you fondly. I do wish we had more time, but the time we did have together was better than I could have ever hoped for. I certainly didn't expect that I could find happiness at my age. With you though, Crowley, I've been the happiest I've ever been. I just wanted you to know that._

_Yours truly,_  
_Aziraphale_

He smokes and watches the world play out its natural course and remembers, maybe just to torture himself, the wobble and quirk of Aziraphale's lips when he's excited, or angry, or sad. The strength with which he pulled them together as they fell asleep, the almost-kiss.

It's not long before Anathema shows up. She starts talking, but Crowley isn't in a state particularly suited for making out words. There's something about the portal and maybe a question about his aura. 

"He's gone." He tells Anathema, pouring himself another shot of whisky that she proceeds to take away from him. He protests, but it is doomed to failure.

"I know," she looks at the streets, at the world so painfully normal now, it's surreal. "The portal opened this morning. He must have known somehow and taken his chance, but it's not the last one! I've found out there _will_ be more, so we could convince him-"

"And tell him what, huh? _He's getting fucking married!_ Even if I go to his world, we could never be together! Not back then. He's made his decision and he's gone! If I can accept it, then so can you." 

Enraged, Crowley grabs his jacket in a rush, causing the coat hanger to wobble, and slams the doors behind himself before Anathema can say another word.

"Wait!" He hears her shout after him, but he's already running down the stairs and towards his next mistake.

"Where are you going?" Anathema calls after him from the balcony, _that persistent witch_.

"You bloody-well know where!"

"Don't do it, Crowley! You'll regret it."

To be fair to her, he probably will regret it, but he will regret it later. 

One tube ride later, he’s ringing the bell to a familiar door, one that brings more painful memories than good ones. Two heartbeats later, a tall man with slicked-back hair and a partially unbuttoned suit opens up and looks him up and down. Crowley feels so wrong he wants to run, but strong hands are already reaching out for him to pull him closer and Crowley melts into the kiss easily, starving for a touch that will want him and fill the hole in his heart. Even if just for this moment.

* * *

Aziraphale enters his laboratory that now seems dreadfully old-fashioned in comparison to what he had experienced in the future. He inspects all the familiar bookshelves and desks, flasks and test tubes, methodically uncovering them from the thick layer of dust. He's in no rush.

He traces his fingers over what once were his most precious possessions, but they don’t bring him the comfort he had hoped for. Not after the happiness he tasted, the people that brought colour to his otherwise-grey world. 

Leaving Crowley behind might have been the hardest thing he had done in his life, but some things just have to be done. Rip the bandage off, let the wound heal properly - better late than never. 

He had worked out that no device was needed to start up the portals some time ago and had just been too much of a coward to admit it. Much easier to disappear without a word, no questions asked, and he had put it off long enough already.

Then he had only needed to calculate the correct place and time, and enter with appropriate velocity. Piece of cake, really, in comparison to all the implications of his jump. His stomach curls every time he thinks of Crowley's unpleasant surprise.

It's the day of the ball, after which he is to choose his future wife. He's not too late to sort things out on this side of time yet, not that it really matters to him now. He had thought it might be easier to bear all of this once he was back home; he was a fool.

He makes his way down the lavish staircase covered in Persian rugs, sliding his hand down the bannister polished to high heaven. He's halfway down to the kitchen, where he was minded to look for comfort among the many pies, when he hears a commotion by the main door. By the look of it, someone is desperately trying to get in while their butler firmly holds his ground. It flashes through Aziraphale's mind that it might be one of his potential suitors. The thought makes him shiver and he turns to flee before he can be spotted.

"Aziraphale, wait!" A familiar voice yells after him and he turns back around at once.

"Anathema? What are you doing here?" His skin turns pale as he feels blood draining from his face. "Oh dear, did it not work?" 

He rushes down towards the dark haired woman and waves away the stunned butler, almost with irritation, which earns him a restrained, but disapproving look. This information will surely make its way to his stubborn and opinionated brother Gabriel, but right now he could not care less.

"No, Aziraphale, it's nothing like that." She puts both of her hands on his arm, grounding him. Aziraphale had never seen her so excited. "It's rather - we found the solution! You can go back to the future!"

There is a burst of sunlight in his chest that he can't quite contain, hope pressing at his every nerve ending.

"Really? How?"

"You're not going to like it." The tall man in glasses who Aziraphale vaguely recognises as Newt - Anathema's assistant - says.

He didn't like it. He hated it, in fact. Too risky, too final and most of all too _kind_. No one had ever been that kind to him. No one except Crowley. But his heart is already thumping in his chest with _hope_ , his sense of duty battling with his heart's desire. Can he even accept it? Can he be brave enough now?

"No, it's too - too selfish. I can't-"

Newt puts a firm reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Trust me, you're doing us a favour." Aziraphale doesn't understand, but he looks at Anathema, at her calm smile and enthusiastic nod. And he makes his decision.  
  


* * *

There's a knock at Crowley's door, impatient and urgent. 

"Ugh, Anathema, I told you to-"

He opens up and it's not Anathema. No. It's a man in the warmest shade of beige he's ever seen, his lips quivering. 

Startled, Crowley takes a step back, his body tensing. He's angry. The man can't keep doing that - opening his heart to have it wasted again. There's a stabbing pain crawling up his stomach.

"Crowley I… Can I come in?" He clasps and unclasps his hands and Crowley has an overwhelming urge to take him in his arms, kiss the worry off his face, but he can't.

He sighs, grateful that he can hide his feelings behind the plexiglass wall of his sunglasses and steps to the side to let him in, but everything inside him boils. He’s remembered all of Anathema’s explanation even though he was drunk as a skunk, but why the fuck is Aziraphale here now? One last evening of excitement before settling down? Whatever it is, Crowley has had enough.

"Why are you here?" He growls and crosses his arms. "You can't just, uh, come into my world on a whim and-"

"Crowley, I know. I know and I'm sorry, I just, I just wanted to tell you… oh." Aziraphale looks past him and Crowley follows his gaze to the smaller figure behind him, wet hair springing in every direction imaginable, who has chosen this precise moment to walk out of his bathroom dressed in a towel alone.

" _What_?" They growl, give the two of them a once over before retiring to Crowley's bedroom.

"I'm… too late." Aziraphale whispers and his eyes lose that spark, covering with fog instead. It makes Crowley weak in the knees and maybe he shouldn't have, but he crosses the distance between them and embraces the man, even if with some apprehension.

"I should-... have never left." Aziraphale stumbles on words, fists his uncertain hands in Crowley's shirt and presses his wet face to his chest. 

"What did you want to tell me?" Crowley lets more bitterness into his voice than he intends.

"I just- Anathema and Newt they- they wanted me to tell you-" he sighs like he can't contain himself. "They went back in time to take my place. We… swapped. Of course, of course I left them everything, passed them off as my distant family…"

"Wait- but that means… you're staying? In my-" he bites his tongue, "in the modern world?"

"That's- that's what I've been trying to tell you! I- I’m _not_ going back. The portal is closed and Anathema with Newt-" Aziraphale hangs his head in shame. "They took my place so we- so I could, uh-"

Suddenly Crowley can't breathe. He pulls back enough to look at Aziraphale, who tries to smile through the tears. He's an absolute mess. 

"Angel," Crowley whispers, wipes a tear off Aziraphale's face. "Angel, why are you crying?"

" _My dear_ ," Crowley's stomach curls at those words that echo his letter. "Because- because I've caused you so much pain and you're- you're already- Is that your ex-partner? Current! Current partner... I mean- I meant- you're well within your right-"

Crowley laughs, maybe for the first time since their first evening together, _before_ they knew- thought they knew of the unbreakable chasm between them, placed there by time itself. He laughs because the situation is ridiculous and he is ridiculous realising only now how it all must look like to Aziraphale. 

He slips his sunglasses off, he doesn't need the protection anymore.

"Aziraphale, Bee is not my partner, neither current nor past.”

The man flutters his eyes in confusion. "Nn-no? Then why-"

There is a lot of explaining to do, but right now-

Crowley leans in and seals their mouths with a kiss, because it's too much and he can't wait any longer, an unexpected moan comes from Aziraphale's throat and the man presses into it. It's messy and urgent, and long overdue. 

Crowley is almost certain his heart is going to burst. 

"You're really staying?" He asks once they part, pressing his forehead against Aziraphale’s, still not quite believing it's all really happening. He might not be able to believe it for the foreseeable future, not until he can touch and taste it day after day.

"Until you're absolutely fed up with me and my ‘vintage’ tastes" he says, hesitates. Aziraphale's perfectly manicured fingers cautiously trail up his chest and Crowley thinks he's never been touched so reverently before. 

Then he remembers and the lead ball of guilt weighs in his stomach. He stops Aziraphale's hand.

"Wait. There is something I have to tell you and it might change your opinion about me…"

"Nothing you could tell me can make me want you any less."

Aziraphale seals his statement, placing a warm hand against Crowley's cheek and his skin lights up with fire. He takes his palm and places a kiss on his wrist. He's almost certain he doesn't deserve this - a demon like him, damned and cast down many times before. Could the angel break his falling? 

He tells Aziraphale a story. It's a story he has never told anyone before, of multiple stumblings and slip-ups, and of his fall.

He's ashamed, but he braves through, because it's Aziraphale and he won't judge him, even if he won't accept him like this. He deserves to know what kind of a broken thing Crowley really is.  
  


* * *

Crowley is pulled through the familiar front door, the arms around him hungry and desperate, lips scalding his skin and teeth biting at his throat. Luca is crowding him against the wall and Crowley clings onto the flashes of old memories where this made him feel good. Maybe that's why he keeps coming back, can't stay away for too long. No one else will ever want him: he's too fractured, too broken.

There's a pit opening in his stomach telling him that whatever happens, he will always end up here: in the stuffy little flat with the cold, modern furniture that has no warmth at all. He doesn't need warmth, he's learnt to live without it. 

Sensations flood his mind and it doesn't even matter now. In a moment he will be able to forget… everything. Maybe Luca will even let him move back in, maybe…

“You smell of smoke and _sandalwood_ , sweetheart.” Luca whispers to his ear, licks it like he can taste it, and a stabbing sensation of guilt pierces his heart. He’s still wearing the same crumpled shirt from the day before, when Aziraphale had curled against him, and Crowley feels sick.

“Stop, I-” he grabs Luca’s wrists, _I can’t do this_ , he wants to say but at the same moment-

There is a key turning in the lock and Luca jumps away from Crowley like his unbuttoned shirt wasn't an obvious cue as to what was happening.

A person with a small frame and cold stare walks in and freezes at the sight of them. The daggers in their eyes are fully directed at Luca, but it doesn't make Crowley any less terrified.

"I - I didn't know! I swear, I would never-" He starts blabbering, but Luca cuts him off.

"It's just this _one_ time." Luca says in that firm charming tone, focusing on the newcomer as if Crowley has stopped existing. His eyes grow wider with every spoken word.

“I know it isn’t,” they respond and it feels like a kick to the gut. His insides are folding on themselves.

“Bee, _sweetheart_ , come here,” Luca says the same words, but not to Crowley and he doesn’t know where to look at this point, he wants to disappear. 

Bee has all the rights to scream or kick him out, instead they approach Luca and when he thinks there will be a reconciling kiss, they give Luca a tight slap across the face that sends the man stumbling. 

Crowley twists his lips.

_That must have hurt._

He has never seen anyone stand up to Luca’s scheming before (certainly not him) and he feels a rush of admiration toward Bee.

They pack their bags in a rush, mumbling something about going back to the hostel, then Bee's gaze lands on him for the first time since they entered, "you coming?"

The next moment, they rush out the flat together, leaving Luca and their pasts behind as Crowley tells Bee his part of the story. They don't even look surprised.

“So you’re the ex that keeps coming back." It's not a question. 

“How do you know-”

“He talks about you, of course, he seems to have a weak spot for you. Not that it really matters, arseholes like him never think about anyone else, but themselves."

It hurts to hear it, but somehow it's exactly what he needs right now. The truth is, Luca was always a selfish bastard, and it's high time he finally accepted it. And maybe, for once, look further than his own selfish arse.

He takes his mobile out, blocks one of the names on the list and deletes the number. This doesn’t feel as bad as he thought it would. 

"Hey Bee? I have a spare couch if you need a place to stay."  
  


* * *

By the time Crowley finishes his story, their fingers are laced together on the couch between them. He can't bear to look up at Aziraphale's eyes. He hates to know the man made his choice without truly knowing what Crowley really is. Trapping himself in this world without a way back.

"Oh, _Crowley_. You're not broken, there is nothing here to forgive." Aziraphale squeezes his hand. “This wouldn’t have happened, if I... hadn't left…"

Aziraphale's shoulders sag and Crowley recognises that familiar wobble of his chin, except now, he can reach out and soothe it. He cups it with both hands and the touch has an immediate effect. Aziraphale's eyes refocus back on him and Crowley's stomach curls again, but this time with hope. 

"You're not responsible for my actions, angel."

"No, I know," Aziraphale forces a smile but it comes out tinged with sadness. “But I shouldn't have left without at least explaining to you first. I'm such a coward."

"Don't say that. You're brave. You've lived in that world for so long, trying to survive. I don't think I could do that." 

“Please, can I just - can I make it up to you?”

"You really don't have to."

"I have to."

"Alright then, you’re learning to cook."

Aziraphale makes an injured noise that Crowley already loves too much.  
  
"You foul fiend."

He extends his hands to entangle them in Aziraphale's shirt, bringing him closer until the man is curled in his embrace, back where he belongs.

It will take time to uncoil their pasts and weave them into something new, something that's only theirs, but they have time now. They have all the time in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> [1] In 1836 British chemist John Frederic Daniell invented ‘Daniell cell’, which was the first practical source of electricity, becoming an industry standard and seeing widespread adoption as a power source for electrical telegraph networks.
> 
> [2] Coloboma is an eye abnormality. Colobomas are missing pieces of tissue in structures that form the eye. The implications vary from having no vision impairment to being only able to discern light/dark. The iris is visibly distorted, causing the pupil to look like a keyhole or a slit.
> 
> [3] Waltz was introduced in England in 1813 and was considered indecent as late as 1825.  
> The exact song is [ Until by Sting ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2wmaUw_I33g), which is played at the end of "Kate & Leopold" movie.


End file.
